


see you in a minute

by andibeth82



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), F/M, Natasha Romanov Feels, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 12:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21494623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re the only people in a facility made to house at least twenty other people.”He had noticed, in fact. He’d noticed a lot of things, like the fact that Natasha was alone, and that she was clearly shaken about something but apparently not shaken enough to let her guard down. And he knows he won’t get anything else out of her, not with the way she’s acting. But at least he’s here and he’s with her, and now he’s got a chance to do things differently.[A canon divergence fic in which Clint goes back in time instead of Steve, doesn't become Ronin, and starts over with Natasha.]
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 25
Kudos: 97





	see you in a minute

**Author's Note:**

> I've had so many post Endgame ideas in my head and it's taking forever to get them out, but basically, I couldn't stop thinking of the end of the movie and what would've happened if it had been Clint who had gone back in time instead of Steve. That apparently all culminated in a lot of feelings, mostly relating to "what would have happened if Clint hadn't become Ronin and been there for Natasha's five years and start a relationship with her while everyone else was snapped?"
> 
> Also, I'm taking liberties with the conventions of time travel because we all know that the Russos did.

A few years ago, when Clint was bedridden with a case of the flu (something Natasha mercilessly teased him about considering he could travel to third world countries and come back fine but_ of course_ he picked up a traveling virus from an elementary school student), he spent his time on the couch with Cooper and Lila curled up on the floor watching all three extended editions of_ Lord of the Rings_. Lila particularly liked Gandalf because of his staff; Clint suspected that was because his staff was similar to Natasha’s new batons and Cooper took a liking to Gimli’s witty remarks.

(He was more offended than he’d ever let on that neither of them cared at all for Legloas.)

_A wizard is never late, Frodo Baggins. Nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to._

The quote sears through Clint’s pounding head, drilling itself into his brain as he struggles to stand. He knows he’s calculated correctly so he has to be at the farm, but for some reason, he can’t seem to orient himself. Taking a deep breath, he lets his lungs inhale the pre-fall air, the scented pine, and the faint whiff of basil Laura had tended to in the garden just a few days ago.

He opens his eyes as the world stops spinning.

Everything is quiet, tranquil, and still, and without even looking around, he knows this is after -- after the snap, after the shock. After his panic, his rage, his grief. His eyes catch the discarded bow where Lila had been standing moments before, the empty picnic table with a half-prepared hot dog and a baseball mitt lying forgotten on the grass. He has no idea how long it’s been since the snap, but he knows he hadn’t wanted to arrive back at the exact time that his family disappeared. That hadn’t done him any favors in the first place. He had wanted to get back after enough time had passed that people had leveled out.

That _she_ had leveled out.

Clint walks into the house, well aware of how loud his footsteps sound in the echoing silence, and searches for his cell phone which he’s left lying on the couch. Picking it up with shaking hands, he dials a number he knows by heart.

“Hi.”

“Clint?” Natasha sounds breathless, like she’s been breathing heavily or running or -- no, Clint realizes, because he knows her better than anyone. She’s been crying. He can count on the fingers of one hand the times he’s seen Natasha cry.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m okay.”

He hears Natasha’s breathing slow, her footsteps becoming faint as if she’s put him on speakerphone and is walking away from where she’s standing. “Where are you?”

“Home.”

“Home,” Natasha repeats quietly, and he knows it’s coming. “Laura? The kids?”

“Everyone,” Clint confirms quietly. Somehow, saying it out loud isn’t quite as bad as he remembers, and maybe he should’ve said it out loud in the first place rather than running away and fucking off to get revenge. Hindsight is 20/20, after all, and this is _his_ fucking do-over. Natasha remains quiet on the other end of the line, and Clint knows she’s not talking because she’s trying to control her emotions.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. Can I -- can I come see you?”

Natasha laughs quietly, a sardonic sob. “If you can get here.”

That thought sobers him. He hadn’t taken into account the fact that it was still early in the game of “half the world disappeared,” and no one had probably figured out how to manage the transportation issue yet. As Ronin, he had gotten around Japan and other countries easily, often by hitching rides on boats or cargo planes or simply by stealing motorcycles or cars. But given that it’s only been a few days at most since the snap, he wouldn’t be surprised if people were in a frenzied uproar, looting and stealing and panic taking over normal civilization.

Clint stands still for awhile, trying to think, then goes upstairs and grabs a bag from underneath his bed. Attempting to ignore his children’s empty bedrooms, he fills his duffel with shirts and pants and boxers, a few toiletries, and some shoes. Afterwards, he walks to the closet, moving clothes around until he can easily access the locked weapons chest. He empties most of it before transferring the items to a second smaller bag.

He makes sure that the lights are off, the gas is off, the air conditioning is off, and that there’s nothing else that could pose a dangerous issue to the house for the next few months before he walks out the door, heading to his truck.

It would be a long ass drive to New York but he’s done it before, and definitely in a less stable mental state.

Maybe given the situation, he wouldn’t have to pay for gas this time around.

***

It takes him three days to reach New York.

Clint’s not surprised to find that he hasn’t been wrong about the immediate aftermath of Thanos’ snap. At the gas stations and stores he passes, there’s every evidence of the world descending into panic, windows smashed in and shelves cleanly looted. There are barely any cars on the road and the ones that he does see drive so slowly that he almost has a rage meltdown trying to pass them. Normally, he finds the drive from Iowa to New York annoying, simply because half of it is cornfields and open roads. But with barely anyone driving and the quiet of every rest stop, things somehow feel even more aggravating than usual. Pulling into the Avengers Compound in the middle of the night feels like a haven, and he practically throws himself from the vehicle before he’s fully parked, desperate for human interaction and to get out of the damn car.

Still, he hesitates at the front of the building, wondering if he should knock. The chances that Natasha would answer her phone at two in the morning weren’t too slim, but he doesn’t want to wake anyone up else who might be around. He doesn’t think he’s ready to see anyone else, much less explain his current situation. He’s surprised to find the door open when he presses on it gently, the bullet proof glass door sliding open and allowing him inside.

Clint enters cautiously, keeping one hand near his thigh, adjacent to where he’s holstered his handgun. Either somebody was here or nobody was here, and he hoped to god that if it was somebody it was the somebody he was looking for and _not_ somebody who already tried to make a play for the remaining Avengers. As he moves through the large space, keeping his eye trained on every shadow and every possible movement, he lets his ears pick up on anything that might signal some kind of trouble, keeping his footsteps as soft as possible.

He drops his gun when he enters the common room, which is empty and dark except for a figure sitting on the couch. He allows himself to breathe for the first time in probably ten minutes, feeling less lightheaded as the air enters his lungs, because he knows that rigid yet slouched form like the back of his hand.

“I should’ve known you’d be up.”

Natasha turns her head slowly, allowing him to see her more clearly from some of the moonlight that’s filtering through the window. Her blonde hair is longer than it was when he’d last seen her, unkempt and messily strewn over her shoulders, and he thinks he can see hints of her natural red creeping back in at the roots. She’s wearing what looks like a pair of black sweatpants and one of his SHIELD shirts that he swore he lost ages ago, her face scrubbed clean and devoid of any makeup or concealer which makes her eyes and cheeks look redder and more pale than usual.

“Where is everyone?”

Natasha gets up slowly, as if moving any faster will cause her pain, and he notices she doesn’t even look surprised to see him. “Pepper took Tony to stay at her old apartment and Rhodey went with them. Bruce and Thor and Steve took off awhile ago. Nebula and Rocket and Carol wanted to take the Benatar back to space for a bit.” She smiles faintly, crossing her arms over her chest as she finds his eyes. “You look like shit.”

“You’re one to talk.”

He’s seen Natasha at her most vulnerable plenty of times, he’s seen her sick and weak and without any kind of mask, makeup or not. But for some reason that he can’t place, this seems more serious, and he can’t help but call it out. He notices she doesn’t even react to his response, her gaze unwavering.

“There’s a lot I should catch you up on. You’ve been gone a long time.”

Apparently. He didn’t think it was _that_ long after the snap but maybe it was longer than he’d realized. Or maybe time moved differently in this branched past, he has fucking no idea.

“Bad things?”

Natasha shrugs “Look, I’m assuming you’re tired. If you want to sleep, your room is open.”

Clint blinks, unsure if he’s mishearing things thanks to his tiredness. “My room?”

“Well. My room.” Natasha offers another small smile. “Like SHIELD -- what’s mine is yours, right?”

“Right.” Clint rubs his eyes. “And where are _you_ sleeping?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re the only people in a facility made to house at least twenty other people.”

He had noticed, in fact. He’d noticed a lot of things, like the fact that Natasha was alone, and that she was clearly shaken about something but apparently not shaken enough to let her guard down, clearly evident by her response about their sleeping arrangements. God knows they’d slept in the same bed plenty of times despite his marriage, and it was usually for a reason that Laura would understand -- sickness, protection, or a mental health break after a hard mission.

“Yeah, okay.”

He knows he won’t get anything else out of her, not with the way she’s acting. But at least he’s _here _and he’s with her, and now he’s got a chance to do things differently.

At least this time, he’s going to make sure she doesn’t end up alone for five years, let alone five days.

By the time he’s picked up his bag again, she’s already gone, leaving him alone in the dark common room.

***

Days of travel and uncomfortable naps in the back of the car leave Clint more tired than he expects, and he doesn’t realize until he wakes up that he’s slept until well past noon. For a moment, he forgets where he is, and then the bright sunlight is forcing his eyes open as memories flood back into his brain. Time travel, the farm, Laura, the kids..._Natasha_. He sits up and slides out of bed, padding to the attached bathroom. A quick shower wakes him up enough to feel like he can be coherent, and he throws on some clothes before he makes his way out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

There’s soft music coming from a stereo near the kitchen area, but the complex is otherwise quiet. Clint spies a half-full pot of coffee sitting on the counter and gratefully grabs for it, despite the fact it’s more lukewarm than he’d normally prefer. Taking the cup with him, he starts wandering around searching for Natasha, unsure if he even wants to find her.

Something had happened. That much he knew, and he has a hunch that it’s something more than just the snap. He checks into an empty common room, study, and courtyard, finding nothing, and finally manages to bump into Natasha in the hallway; she’s coming from what he assumes has to be the training center based on her braided hair, trackpants, and heavy breathing. He nods towards her.

“Early morning or late night?”

Natasha shrugs as she meets him halfway across the floor. “Take your pick. I see you found the coffee.”

“Yeah, I could use a microwave though.”

Natasha smiles in acknowledgement as she moves past him and Clint clears his throat, raising his voice.

“It’s pretty nice out. Wanna take a walk after you change?”

“Not really,” Natasha responds over her shoulder. “But you can leave the door open if you want to get out for a bit.”

Clint can’t help his frustrated exhale and he knows that despite her distance, she’s heard it too. “Nat, what the hell happened?”

Natasha stops walking, waiting a few moments before finally turning around. He wonders if she’s giving herself the time to put her masks on, not having anticipated he’d be in her space like this.

“What do you _think_ happened, Clint? Half the world is gone.”

“Yeah, no shit. My family’s gone.”

Natasha shakes a little, as if she hasn’t been aware of that particular fact even though Clint knows she has. “I know,” she says softly, shifting her gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I know what happened to them, and it fucking sucks.” He glances around the room, letting himself take in the abandoned space. “But I think something happened here too, and I’m not sure what it is.”

Natasha bites down on her lip and when she looks up, the faintest hint of tears are visible in her eyes.

“I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“So are you mad I’m here?”

Natasha gives him a look, shaking her head. “You know that’s not it.”

“So what _is_ it?”

He considers himself pretty good when it comes to controlling his temper; over the years his anger streak had been something he’d fought to own and Natasha had been a large part of that, talking him down when he wanted to lash out at someone or reminding him that he couldn’t break a plate while his kids were in earshot. But he can tell she’s hiding something and it makes him want to scream. He wants to break, to tell her didn’t travel back in time and relive his worst memories and drive three days straight just to have her avoid him.

He manages to stop himself from saying anything, but can’t help the muttered _goddammit Nat _that escapes from between his lips. She crosses her arms over her chest, as if she’s trying to hold her own feelings in.

“Why the hell can’t you leave me alone, Clint? I _told_ you. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Bullshit,” he counters. “You do, but you’d rather forget it. You know what happens when we ignore shit that we should talk about?”

“Very well,” Natasha intones coldly, her eyes narrowing. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t ask me not to kill you in Budapest,” Clint responds angrily. “You didn’t ask me not to vouch for you at SHIELD. You didn’t ask me to take you to my home. You didn’t ask for a lot of things in your life, but I still did them.”

“I didn’t ask to be alone in a battle where I almost _died_!” Natasha bursts out, her voice vibrating off the wide walls. “I didn’t ask to go to space, to fail at everything, to leave with nothing!”

Clint blinks, momentarily forgetting his anger, because it’s the second time in less than twenty-four hours that space has been mentioned. “What do you mean? When did you go to space?”

Natasha swallows, pressing her lips together. “After Thanos. We spent weeks trying to figure out what happened -- who got snapped, who was left...how to fix it. Fury had some sort of pager he carried around. It went off when he disappeared, and we brought it back here to try to figure out what it was. That’s what brought us to Carol.”

Clint frowns, trying to remember the chaotic battle that had felt like ten years and five minutes at the same time. “And Carol is…”

“Another superhero,” Natasha confirms quietly. “We managed to figure out where Thanos was hiding and she took us there. But there was no point -- he’d already used the stones and they couldn’t be replaced.” She pauses. “Thor lost his temper and killed him.”

Well. _That_ was a whole new thing. Clint tries to let his mind digest everything -- what he knows and how Thanos _did_ exist, at least in some version, before they killed him for good in 2023 -- and what had happened before he re-entered the picture. It makes sense, at least, why everyone had disappeared. Whatever happened clearly had a devastating effect, one that had shaken his remaining friends, not to mention his best friend, to their core.

“So that’s why you’re upset?”

The moment he asks the question, he regrets it. Natasha’s eyes go dark, her face contorting into what he knows is a look of controlled rage.

“Are you serious?”

“I didn’t -- I just --” Clint stops, trying to find the right words to continue. “I know all that was traumatizing and stressful, but I _know_ you, Nat. You don’t give up on things that easily. Maybe there’s another way.”

“There _is_ no other way,” Natasha snaps, her words punctured by barely-held back sobs. “Everything is gone. There are no stones, there’s no way to fix this. There’s _nothing_. There’s no way to get anyone back. Not Wanda, not Vision, not your family. This is it, Clint. _This_ is our future. Half the world gone...and failure...and everyone being left alone.”

She turns around as soon as she’s done talking, walking fast across the floor, and he has enough sense to know she’s trying to get away from him before she completely loses it. Against his better instincts, he quickens his pace, managing to reach her just as she puts her hand on the handle of the door that he knows leads into one of the bathrooms.

To her credit, she doesn’t fight when he turns her around. To his credit, he doesn’t say anything about the tears freely falling down her cheeks. He just puts an arm around her and draws her close, letting her hold onto him, even if he knows she might not be ready for that yet.

“Well, I’m here now. So you’re not alone.”

***

He offers to make her lunch. He can tell she doesn’t really want to eat but that she doesn’t have a good enough excuse to brush him off, so he ignores the fact that she barely touches her macaroni and cheese once he brings it to the table, after she’s showered and changed.

“When’s the last time you used a stove?” she asks as he leans back in his chair, and he can tell she’s trying to lighten the mood.

“Last week,” he says, and it’s an honest answer. “Warmed up some old pot roast for dinner.”

Natasha nods, playing with her spoon and scooping up a tiny portion of shells. Her carefulness and hesitancy reminds Clint of how Lila would play with her food when she was starting to eat adult solids, curious but unsure of how to navigate a grown-up world.

“You think, uh, anyone will be back soon?”

Natasha shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone has any plans. I think we’re all just...figuring things out.”

“Yeah. Makes sense, I guess.” He looks down at his own bowl of half-eaten macaroni. “What are you doing to do?”

“_That’s_ the million dollar question.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “What are _you_ going to do?”

“Uh.” Clint raises his eyebrow back. “Hello? Do you think I drove halfway across the country just because I wanted to?”

That makes her smile, and he sees the side of her cheek twitch in a way anyone else might have missed.

“I thought you just missed arguing with me.”

“I _was_ feeling a little needy, now that you mention it.” He reaches across the table, putting his hand on top of her palm. “I’m here, and I’m staying.”

Natasha huffs out a quiet laugh, glancing around the kitchen as she pulls her hand back. “Staying for _what_? It’s not like there’s anything we can do.”

He forces himself to forget his own knowledge of events, the fact that Natasha might be right but that she’s also wrong -- there _was_ something for her to do. There were lots of things she could do, even though it would take awhile for those things to come to fruition.

“You think that matters?” He heaves out a sigh. “Nat, I don’t exactly want to be alone, either. My family’s gone, and it seems everyone here is gone, too.”

“Looks like it’s just you and me,” Natasha confirms, putting down her fork. “Like old times.”

“Yeah, well.” Clint makes a face. “This place is nicer than SHIELD. For one, I don’t have to worry about Hill walking in on me when I’m half naked.” He means for the words to be a joke, but realizes it’s probably not a great idea to joke about people who have been literally removed from Earth, given the look on Natasha’s face. “Sorry,” he adds after a moment. “Just -- this whole thing --”

“No, I know,” Natasha says with a resigned sigh, getting up from the table. “No one expected to be snapped away from existence.”

He watches her move, noting how cautious she is, as if she’s afraid to become too relaxed or too comfortable. It’s something that frustrates him because Natasha was only that way around him if there was something bothering her, and not that there’s _nothing_ bothering her, but --

“Hey, you sure you don’t wanna talk?”

Natasha meets his eyes and Clint can tell that she’s been caught off guard from being lost in her own thoughts.

“I’m sure.”

He wonders how selfish he is for sitting here just because he wanted a second chance, just because he wanted to work through his own guilt of not being around the first time. He wonders how selfish he is for being here and knowing everything about the next five years while she knows nothing about the next five minutes. He wonders how selfish he is for manipulating time just so she can have what he wishes he would have been able to give her in the first place -- a support system, and a home. The guilt washes over him like a wave of butterflies mixed with nausea, and he swallows hard.

“Is there something _you_ want to talk about?”

She’s looking at him with the same pointed look he’s just given her, and he’s aware he’s been caught as well. “Nah,” he lies, shaking his head, knowing she can’t call him out on his obvious denial unless she wants to admit there’s something bothering her. “Just thinking about how all this work on my mac and cheese is gonna go to waste if you have three bites. You’re worse than my kids.”

Natasha bites down on her lip, hiding a smile, and grudgingly returns to her seat. She picks up her fork and takes a bite of food.

“Happy now?”

“Very,” he answers with a smirk. Natasha sighs, picking up her fork again.

“I guess if you’re going to stay for more than a day, we’ll need to buy more food or make sure you can make something other than mac and cheese.”

“I’ll make a grocery run,” Clint offers. “Or grocery loot. Whatever the cool kids are calling it these days. I’m not sure Avenger credit cards are still being accepted.”

“If you find out, let me know,” Natasha answers, her voice sounding a little lighter, which he considers a small win. “There’s some stuff I’ve been meaning to splurge on now that half the world has been wiped out.”

***

She disappears again shortly after lunch, and he doesn’t question her. He knows that continuing to push will only lead to distance and annoyance, two things that he doesn’t want to deal with if he doesn’t have to. Clint decides to make himself useful the way he would if he were left alone in his own home, cleaning dishes left in the sink and rearranging some of the mess around the kitchen before moving on to the common room. Most of the clutter he finds are papers and books and he gathers them in neat piles before sprawling out on the large couch, his ears ringing with silence.

He knew how time travel worked, technically: what was a day here was less than a millisecond in his other timeline. For all he knew, Steve, Sam, Bucky, and Bruce were all waiting around to see if he was going to come back. Well, he’d be back eventually.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Fuck, he should really tell Natasha.

_But what good would that do_? Clint asks the question as he leans back against the thick pillows. If she believed him, which was a big _if_ that hinged on the trust of their relationship, then she would probably be even more unnerved knowing that he willingly _left_ his future to come back to her. She’d be pissed, and to be honest, she’d have every reason to be. He knows he wouldn’t tell her about her death, but he has a small amount of hope that maybe this was a timeline where he didn’t have to worry about that. He tries to remember what Bruce had told him about branched timelines but it makes his head hurt, so he forces himself to let it go.

“Is laziness your new thing?”

He opens one eye, finding Natasha standing in front of him. She’s dressed in sweats and looks a little more alert than she did at lunch, her skin gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. Clint bites down on the inside of his cheek.

“Can I ask you a question? Why the workouts?”

Natasha hesitates, and Clint wants to ask if she really didn’t expect him to pick up on it -- he would’ve picked up on it even if she was trying to hide her activities by doing them at three in the morning. Finally, she sighs.

“We trained at SHIELD all the time, remember?”

“I’m well aware.” He loops an arm behind his head, hoping the casual look will allow her to open up if she doesn’t feel like she’s being questioned or judged. “I just feel like two or three workouts in one day is a little overkill, you know?”

Natasha glances at the floor, and then at the walls. “Well,” she starts, and it sounds like she’s trying to make herself sound logical and rational, “if something happens, I want to be ready.”

Clint holds back a smirk; he wants to laugh not because he thinks her reasoning is funny or stupid but because the response is so classically Natasha -- answering a question with truth while also hiding every emotion.

“Is it only that?”

“What do you mean, is it _only_ that?” Natasha asks a little coldly. “Did you drive all the way here to question me?”

“Nat, jeez. Of course not. But you told me what happened and I just…I want to help.”

“You can help by not asking me those kinds of questions,” she replies promptly. Clint groans, sitting up and reaching for her hand, intending to pull her towards him.

“Hey --”

Natasha freezes at his touch, her bones sharpening into ice before she twists out of his grip. Clint stares at her, knowing the mixture of confusion and concern is clearly written on his face, but he doesn’t move when she wrenches away, hurrying down the hall.

They were partners -- best friends -- for a reason. Touch, no matter how intimate, was never off limits; Laura didn’t matter when it came to that and she even understood it. Clint knows something is wrong, something where she feels threatened or worried, and while he assumes it’s related to what happened with Thanos, he can’t help but wonder if there’s something more that she’s not telling him.

***

It’s another three weeks before he feels like he can touch her again.

It feels strange, to be so removed and so on edge. It feels like the old days, the days when he first brought her into SHIELD, when he knew he had to keep his distance -- not that he had any intention of touching her in the way they would eventually come to touch each other, soft caresses late at night when one of them had a nightmare or gentle presses to a pulse point not to see whether or not each other was alive, but to make sure they knew that they were real and valid.

Clint’s spent years learning all of Natasha’s quirks and tells, and so he plays along with not pushing her for while letting her think she’s calling the shots. He silently keeps a close and careful eye on her day-to-day activities and moods and if anything, the new normal gives him the space to adjust to a world that he’d never really let himself acclimate to before diving into a pit of rage and grief.

He makes dinner when he can, and orders takeout when he doesn’t feel like doing anything more. They eat together with light conversation, feet touching under the table every so often, talking about anything and everything except what’s happened. At the end of every meal, he always takes the plates to be cleaned and she always disappears for one last workout before going to bed. Clint’s honestly surprised she has the stamina to train as much as she does, despite what he knows about her training and her body, so he’s not surprised when he comes back from cleaning up the kitchen one night to find her asleep on the couch, still dressed in her gym gear, haphazardly stretched over the fabric.

He almost lets himself stay there, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants, eyes trained on a body that looks smaller and more vulnerable than usual. But he forces himself to leave her alone, knowing the last thing she needs is to wake up and find him lording over her like some protective big brother. He’d already been on the receiving end that situation years ago, and didn’t really care to repeat it.

Clint’s halfway up the stairs when a noise forces him to turn back, his ears picking up on what sounds like a soft gasp. Cautiously and curiously, he backtracks to the living room, finding Natasha twitching uneasily in sleep, clearly unsettled. Before he has a chance to think about what to do, her eyes fly open in surprise and she lets out a loud yell. He sees the feral defense coursing through her blood, traveling through her veins and settling in her pupils, but he also sees the confusion and fear that he knows are indicative of a nightmare, a look he’s seen too many times to count.

“Hey, hey.” He kneels down in front of her and grabs her hand, not caring about how she’s previously reacted to him touching her. “Nat, it’s okay.”

Her eyes struggle to focus, darting across the room before locking into his. Once they do, water starts lining the lower rim of her lids.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, keeping his voice low. “Whatever it was, you were just dreaming.”

She shakes her head, swallowing down a harsh sob. He can see every inch of her shaking, the quivers she’s unsuccessfully trying to keep him from seeing.

“Clint...he was there.”

“I know,” Clint answers, because he does, even if he doesn’t. Hell, he fought the purple bastard -- ran into his path of fire, was damn near killed by him. He can’t imagine what it must have felt like to stand in front of his face, to have that kind of terror staring back at you.

“He took you. He took you from me.”

It’s the last thing Clint expects her to say and the words punch him in the gut, robbing him of air and temporarily blacking out his brain. “Nat.” He pauses, collecting his words, giving himself time to recover, to gather breath back into his lungs, keeping their hands locked together. “You think I’m going anywhere? Have I ever abandoned you when you needed me?” He hates saying the words out loud, pretending he’s some noble and caring knight when he knows exactly what he’s inflicted her in another timeline, but that was then. This was now. And _now_ was all that mattered.

“Yes,” Natasha replies quietly. “When I asked you to.”

_Hydra_. She had called him from a burner phone and asked him, in code and with no explanation, not to come back from the mission he was currently on. When they finally had a moment to connect over scones and warm tea in Morocco, she told him the whole story. And when he said he was worried about her and wanted to come home rather than continue with his solo mission for another month, she almost threw her tea in his face.

“Well, if I didn’t, I would’ve had third degree burns,” he answers, smiling at the memory. Natasha manages to smile back before her face drops and she pulls her hand away slowly, curling her legs more tightly on the couch.

“I keep having these dreams.”

Clint frowns. “About Thanos?”

“No,” Natasha answers, shaking her head. “Different dreams. About you and me.”

Clint’s first instinct is to ask if they’re romantic dreams, which feels like bad form. In some timeline, Laura was back in their house with their children. In this timeline -- the one where he could probably stay forever if he wanted to, though he’s not sure how that would actually work -- Laura was pretty much considered dead. Either way, given the circumstances, Natasha being Natasha wouldn’t take kindly to Clint immediately assuming he had the right to pursue her even if she wanted it as much as he did.

“What happens?”

For a long time, Natasha is quiet. She looks down at her hands, blonde hair falling into her face. “We’re on a rock,” she says softly, as if she’s telling him a deep secret. “Somewhere cold...I don’t know where.”

Clint breathes out slowly, biting down on his tongue so hard he tastes blood. _I know where_ he thinks, his eyes burning.

“And?”

“And we’re fighting each other,” Natasha continues slowly. “Like we did on the helicarrier, but it’s different. And then we fall, but it’s not both of us. It’s just me. I fall, because you let go of me.”

Clint swallows down the grief and fear that threatens to explode from his body. “They’re just dreams,” he declares as Natasha shoots him a hard look.

“Are they? Those stones Thanos had -- they’re a part of us. They _were_ a part of us. Thanos happened, Clint...how do you know what I’m dreaming won’t happen, too?”

“I don’t,” he admits quietly, because he knows being honest is better than nothing. He really doesn’t know if Natasha’s death will happen. Hell, he doesn’t know if his own will happen. “But you told me that Thanos is dead now. So how is he going to kill us if he’s dead?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha answers, sounding frustrated. “I don’t _know_, Clint. I don’t know anything anymore, I don’t know what to do except try to move on.”

“Except you haven’t,” Clint argues as gently as he can. “Is this why you’ve been working out so much? Because you’re trying to move on?”

Natasha’s mouth slots itself into a thin line, the very definition of _fuck you._ “You don’t know what it’s been like.”

“No,” Clint answers, allowing himself to sit back. “I don’t know, because you won’t talk to me.”

Natasha gets up suddenly, and Clint scrambles to his feet as she moves away from the couch. He knows he shouldn’t chase her, he knows he shouldn’t push her when she’s already agitated, but _still_ \--

“Please talk to me.”

“Talk to yourself,” Natasha retorts as she disappears down the hallway. Clint resists the urge to smash his fist into the nearest wall, even though he knows that isn’t going to help the situation, then contemplates taking a page out of her book, going downstairs to the gym and punching the hell out of a sand bag. Instead, he decides to get ready for bed, since there’s nothing else for him to do right now.

The cold water he splashes onto his face feels cool and refreshing, pulling him back into the moment, enough so that he can refocus himself. As he exits the bathroom, he finds himself veering away from the bedroom and walking towards the guest bedroom Natasha’s been sleeping in; the door is tightly shut but he can tell she’s inside because he can see the small sliver of light peeking out from underneath the door and hear the soft music bleeding out from between the walls.

He lets himself slump down in front of the door. She won’t talk to him, fine -- he can handle that, he’s had years of Natasha freezing him out for one reason or another. But he refuses to ignore the fact that she’s clearly not okay, and if she has another nightmare, he wants to at least be there.

***

“What the hell?”

Clint has no idea he’s actually fallen asleep. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, nor does he remember the hallway being so damn dark. Judging from all that and the fact that his neck feels like it’s been stuck in a vice, he’s betting there’s a reason for Natasha’s sharp tone.

“Ugh.” He manages to look up, squinting at her downturned face. “What time is it?”

“Just past one. Why the hell are you out here?”

“Free compound,” he says, struggling to get up even as every single bone creaks in protest. “Also, I figured you wouldn’t let me in, given your earlier reactions.”

“Do better,” Natasha argues, crossing her arms. “You were worried about me.”

“Fine,” Clint says tiredly, waving his hand around. “I was worried about you. Should I not be? You’re practically ignoring me, _clearly_ something is wrong that I don’t and can’t understand because whatever I do to help isn’t helping, so I don’t know what else to do other than sit outside your room and hope you don’t throw yourself off the fucking roof because you won’t open up about your feelings!”

Natasha stares at him for a long time, so long that Clint thinks she might be frozen in her reaction. Then she sighs, her body sagging as she gestures towards the open door.

“Fine. Come in.”

He looks at her in surprise, slightly dumbfounded, and she groans.

“Are you going to come the hell in or not?”

He nods, walking forward and closing the door behind him. The covers are rumpled, a clear sign of a bed that’s been slept in but he can tell from the wrinkled sheets that she’s probably not bothering to was anything. He wonders when she last did the laundry and decides he doesn’t want to start another argument tonight.

When he looks up again, he notices she’s undressing in front of him, taking off her shirt and dropping it on the floor. Despite the fact this isn’t new -- seeing each other naked wasn’t exactly off-limits in their closeness and line of work -- he finds himself surprised by the open show of intimacy and clears his throat, taking a deep breath before he speaks.

“Can I?”

Natasha’s hands pause on her bra strap. She doesn’t turn around, but he can see her shoulders lifting in a show of protection and trepidation.

“You have Laura.”

“No,” Clint responds, stepping closer. “I don’t. Not now. And you don’t get to pull the wife card on me, not when half the world has disappeared and we’re both hurting.”

“You can’t just fix everything with your own needs, Clint!” She twists around, her frustrated voice framing a face set in annoyance, and he tries not to concentrate on how heavily her chest is heaving, the curves of her breasts rising and falling in perfect unison.

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” he says, because it’s the truth. “I’m just trying to help. I need this. _You_ need this.”

Natasha doesn’t answer, but he can see how his words have affected her, her eyes glazing over and her lips setting themselves in a straight line. Instantly, he knows he’s right -- she would never let herself admit that she needs this or wants this, whether it was because she was scared or sad or just uncomfortable -- but if he didn’t push her, she wouldn’t _ever_ admit it. She swallows hard, lowering her head, letting him step forward and reach around her back. Clint unhooks her bra, letting it fall to the floor, then takes her chin in his hand, lifting her face to meet his eyes.

He’s been looking at Natasha since he arrived at the compound, he’s been seeing the signs of her fear and sadness and hurt. But face to face, every single wall finally starting to come down, he feels like he’s finally seeing her for the first time. Her eyes, which haven’t shed any of the pain he’s previously noticed, are hollow and dull, and the lines around her face are deeper than he remembers.

_What happened to you_? he wants to ask, his heart aching from the pain of not being there, either time. In the other timeline, he had been away because he was selfish, never even bothering to check in after everything happened. In this timeline, he had still been away, Ross’ house arrest lulling him into a false sense of peace that had him comfortable with her visiting the farm only intermittently in between secret missions, mostly for the sake of his kids. Clint leans down and kisses her before she can say anything, counting to five in her head as their lips meet. It’s an unspoken ask of trust, if she wants this or if she doesn’t she’ll let him know.

She presses back against his lips with the slightest amount of pressure, enough for Clint to understand her consent. He wraps his arms around her back, pressing her half-naked body against his chest, cradling her against him as if he can shield her from the hurt he knows she’s still trying to ignore.

As if he can make up for lost time, or in this case, lost decades.

She breaks the kiss, moving her hands across his sternum, fiddling with the neckline of his t-shirt. Her fingers dip underneath the fabric, skirting across his skin, across the large scar he knows exists.

“We’re really going to do this?”

Clint nods, letting her hands explore his body as if she’s discovering him for the first time. It’s not only sexual, it’s stimulating, and it sends a combination of comfort and joy through his bones.

“Yeah.” He bows his head, gently stroking her hair. “Is that okay?”

Natasha nods, putting both her palms against his skin, closing her eyes and letting a single tear run down her cheek.

“Yes,” she whispers before kissing him and as their lips touch again, he feels his whole heart begin to heal.

***

Waking up with Natasha is different, but not uncomfortable.

What Clint realizes, as he stretches and comes into contact with her right leg, which is tucked underneath his ankle, is that waking up with Natasha doesn’t feel wrong or weird or strange. It feels normal, like this was always supposed to be a part of them, just a part that they haven’t been able to explore until now -- until the worst possible thing had happened to humanity, until he had used that horrible thing to his advantage, a need to claim what he’s wanted for most of his life.

“What are you thinking about?”

He hasn’t realized she’s been up to, but he should have. They were never good at sleeping in, even on their laziest days. Clint turns his head, a section of his foggy brain still trying to accept this is their new normal -- or it could be, if she lets it.

“How can you tell I’m thinking?”

Natasha gives him a look, which doesn’t quite work given that half of her left eye buried in his bicep. “Clint.”

“Just...wondering about stuff,” he says vaguely, which isn’t a total lie. “What things are going to be like now, or if this is what we’re going to have to get used to.”

“You mean if anyone will come back.”

He hadn’t meant it like that, though maybe he didn’t realize that was what he was implying with his words. The thing was, there was just no way to know if this timeline would be different. The advantage to staying would be that he knew what happened in the future and he could maybe control it to arrange a different outcome, but that was assuming this particular timeline was a direct mirror of the one he’d left.

Clint turns over so that their foreheads are touching. “Maybe I’m just wondering if it even matters.”

Natasha’s lips part immediately. “You’re telling me if Laura came back, you wouldn’t go right back to your family?”

He doesn’t know why he’s been waiting for this question, but he knows he has -- and he knows it’s the one thing she’s been turning over in her mind, the thought that’s probably contributed to making her hesitant to get close to him, despite his advances and allowances.

“You’re my family,” he says firmly, kissing her skin. “You know that.”

Natasha sits up in bed, letting the covers fall loosely around her naked body. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Clint grunts, flopping over again and staring at the ceiling. “No, because I don’t think it’s a fair question.”

“Really.” Natasha’s voice is dripping with disbelief. “You’re acting like I don’t know you _or_ your family, Clint. I think it’s a _very_ fair question.”

He knows he’s not going to get out of this. And he has no idea what he can say that will make her feel better about what they’re doing, what they can continue to do, and he certainly can’t tell her what he’s left back in 2023 even if he knows there are good intentions behind his decision.

“Look, here’s the way I see it.” He keeps his gaze turned upwards and doesn’t bother to look at her as he talks. “We have no idea if any of this can be fixed, right? And we don’t know if anyone will come back. I could waste my time thinking about everything that I’ve lost and dwell on everything I could _still_ lose, including you, because I _know_ I’m going to lose you if I don’t at least pull you out of this depression hellhole. And if I can make this new world a little better by giving you this, then I don’t care about anything else. _Everyone_ in the world lost someone, Nat. At some point, people are going to get tired of waiting and move on. At least with me, I’m moving on with someone I already know I love.”

Natasha gets up abruptly, leaving the covers in a tangle, and for a moment he’s worried he’s pissed her off enough that they’re going to be right back to where they were last night. But when he sits up to see better, she’s standing across from him putting on a bra and a tank top, staring at him with a look of empathy and concern.

“Why are you doing this?”

_Because I failed the first time. Because I wanted a second chance and I know some of us don’t get second chances. Because you deserve a better life than what you went through for five years in the timeline I know._

“Because we’re us, and that’s what we do.”

Natasha smiles tentatively, continuing to get dressed while Clint gets out of bed. He keeps watching her out of the corner of her eye, noticing how her movements seem slightly different than they have in comparison to the past few days -- less calculated, more relaxed. When she reaches for her hair, pulling the overgrown strands into a low ponytail, he realizes he _knows_. And while he doesn’t know if it was their intimacy that had finally done it, some switch had been flipped that somehow made the room brighter.

“So, what do we do now that half the world is gone?”

“Hmmmm.” Clint squints as he thinks. “Baseball game? Wait, no, there’s probably no games. Uh...brunch? A movie? I bet we could get into any movie without even paying.”

Natasha smiles faintly, knowingly. “It’s not so easy, is it?”

“To figure out how to exist in a world where half the people you love are gone? No, not really.” He grabs his pants from the floor, pulling them up before pausing to think again. “You know, maybe you should look into taking up Fury’s job.”

Natasha laughs under her breath, rolling her eyes. “Okay, Hawkeye. I know you’ve been living under that farm rock for a few years, but in case you haven’t noticed, we’re a long way from SHIELD.”

“I’m serious.” Clint puts his hands on his hips, leaving his pants unzipped and half sagging around his waist. “Maybe there’s something we can do to keep the Avengers going, like you did with Steve and Sam during the Accords. Not everyone is gone, remember? We don’t have to pretend they are. And it would be a way for you to help.”

Natasha looks worried, and he can tell she’s actually contemplating the idea even though she wants to tell him to forget it. He pulls up his pants again but leaves his shirt off, expecting her to take longer to break her silence before she does.

“I don’t know how to fix anything.”

“Me neither,” Clint admits, even though he feels like he’s lying. But he doesn’t know how to fix anything, not really, if that’s even what his whole reason for being here could be called. “But that’s never stopped us before, right?”

When she smiles back, he feels like everything inside him has a new meaning. When she walks into his arms to hug him, he feels like everything that’s been broken inside of him has found a way to glue itself back together.

When she kisses him, every single doubt flies out the window, and he knows this is where he feels the most complete.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr @isjustprogress if you'd like!


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